Wicked Game

by Matt Johnson

  ‘Exactly what do you have in mind’ I asked.

  ‘You look a little sceptical, Finlay.’

  ‘Are you surprised? It’s a long time since I’ve heard anyone discuss a black op.’

  Monaghan waited, as if he expected me to object further, and when I didn’t he continued. ‘We have a man on the police Anti-Terrorist Squad investigation. He’ll inform us if and when the active service unit that took out Bridges is located. We then need to try and find how the file copies got to Ireland. The bombers are our entry into the terrorist network. I’m sure that the constraints of the law are such that we won’t be able to rely on the police to discover this for us.’

  ‘So what can I do? Get you into the cells?’ I was starting to cool down. The initial shock was wearing off. If Monaghan had a plan I needed to hear it.

  ‘No, the fact that you are now a policeman is irrelevant. I think that you would be the best man to organise an operation to detain the terrorists before the police do, and to … interrogate them. You always were one of our best planners, Finlay. And, after all, it is in your interest as much as mine to discover how much these terrorists know.’

  I sat silently, considering my options. It was too early to decide something so serious. The threat was real but I had been retired from active service for a long time. I was married with a family. These types of jobs were for younger, single men.

  ‘You want me to involve myself in the capture of some terrorists,’ I said. ‘And, by interrogation you mean torture, because you know as well as I do that IRA men don’t crack easily. Then, what would you propose, handing them over to the Anti-Terrorist Squad to be arrested? Or are you suggesting we kill them?’

  ‘You’ve got a blunt way of putting it, but yes, that’s what I want you to do.’

  ‘Sorry boss, count me out.’

  ‘You surprise me, Finlay. Way I see it you don’t have much choice.’

  ‘I have a choice. To get me they’ve got to find me.’

  ‘How long are you going to run for, Finlay?’

  I started to make my apologies and was standing to leave when Monaghan raised his hand to silence me.

  ‘Come with me, Finlay. I want to show you something.’

  We left the opulence of the club, which I now found stifling rather than luxurious, and headed south toward Piccadilly. The streets were still very busy, even at such a late hour. Office workers and shoppers had been replaced by people looking to enjoy London’s nightlife. The capital city catered for all tastes. From expensive restaurants through to seedy cafés, from cheap discos through to lavish clubs, from the peep shows of Soho to the cabaret shows of Mayfair, London had it all.

  At a street corner, Monaghan walked up some stone steps to an innocuous red door above which a small light shone. He knocked and, on recognising his face, the doorman bade us enter.

  Descending some stairs we entered a twilight world. In front of me, a huge room was laid out for gambling. There were roulette tables for the rich, blackjack tables for the card-lovers and one-armed bandits for the less affluent. I wondered what we were doing here.

  Monaghan ordered a drink and looked over the card tables. Soon he was immersed in the game.

  I watched. After a few minutes he seemed to become bored and returned to join me.

  ‘I have to get to work,’ I said. ‘Is there a particular reason for you bringing me here?’

  ‘I wanted you to see what my life has become, Finlay.’

  ‘I don’t follow?’

  ‘This is how I spend my time.’ He gestured towards the card tables with his glass. ‘You have a family. I have this. At first, I found it to be a welcome distraction. Now I wonder how I ever managed without it. You see … it’s a challenge, for the intellect, for our planning skills, and it’s all about the bluff and the unknown. All the things we learned in the military, Finlay.’

  ‘I’m not following you. What has this got to do with me?’

  ‘Here in this room is all that I have to lose if the bad guys catch up with me. I didn’t pick you because you are like me or because you are the best soldier. I picked you because you have a reason to fight. You have something to fight for.’

  ‘My family, you mean?’

  Monaghan simply smiled as he took up a place at the nearest card table.

  The dealer dropped a card face down on the table. Monaghan lifted it gently with what looked to be practised skill. It was the Queen of Hearts.

  He smiled and winked at me. ‘My lucky card,’ he said.

  I headed back up the stairs.

  The first thing I did as I left the gambling club was to call home. Jenny seemed to take an age to pick up the telephone. I felt a great sense of relief as she answered. She was OK; Becky was OK.

  ‘Did you forget anything this evening?’ Jenny asked.

  I didn’t have time for twenty questions so I teased my misdemeanour straight out of her.

  The local Scoutmaster had just been on the phone. I was supposed to be giving the cubs a talk on camping and outdoor survival. It had been arranged weeks ago and with everything else going on it had slipped my mind. I was annoyed with myself for letting them down. I enjoyed helping the cubs. I was looking forward to when Becky joined the Brownies. Kids at that age found the most simple of things fascinating and I found their young enthusiasm absorbing. They called me Uncle Bob. I called them my little soldiers. Now I’d let them down and that pissed me off.

  ‘Did you apologise for me?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course. I hope you don’t mind but I told him about the Inspector killed in the Selfridges bomb having been a friend of yours. He seemed a lot more understanding after that.’

  ‘No … that’s fine … I’ve got to go.’

  Jenny paused for several seconds before answering. ‘Are you alright, Bob?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘You don’t seem yourself. Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  ‘No, nothing.’ I answered too quickly. I knew it as soon as I blurted out the words. It was a sure give-away that I wasn’t being truthful.

  ‘Ok, well, if you’re sure.’ Jenny answered, quietly. ‘You know if there is something, if this old friend of yours being killed has really upset you, we can always talk, can’t we?’

  ‘Yes … I’m sorry. It probably is that. But I really do have to go, or I’ll be late for work.’

  We ended the call. I felt reassured to hear Jenny’s voice but perturbed that she had already sensed that I wasn’t myself.

  But for now, that problem would have to wait … I had to do some thinking. If Monaghan was right, we could all be in danger.

  One attack. One former colleague dead. And now Monaghan was talking assassinations. It didn’t make sense … unless he wasn’t telling me everything.

  As I made my way to Stoke Newington for the night shift, I started to wonder if my security and happiness was about to come crashing down at any moment. For all I knew, I was already being watched. On the other hand, if my home was safe, unknown to these terrorists, at least that would buy me some time. But what if Monaghan was entirely wrong? What if there was no threat? I could end up reacting in a way that was going to expose my past, seriously strain my marriage and put my cosy future at risk. All just to satisfy the paranoid fears of a former boss.

  After collecting the car, I stopped for fuel. I’d only just filled up the petrol tank when the urge to speak to Jenny hit me again. I called her straight away and told her that I loved her. It was so impulsive, not like me at all. I apologised for rushing the previous call and we chatted for a few minutes, I don’t remember what about. We were just on our goodbyes when a man started walking across the station forecourt towards my car.

  He was dressed completely in black. Leather jacket, jeans, boots. The boots were Danner, military type. I hung up the phone and put the car in gear.

  As he walked closer, there was no doubt. He was coming for me. I readied myself. First sign of danger
I would drive the car at him and make my escape. I was ready. Christ, I wished I had a gun.

  The man walked up to the driver’s door. The window was open. I held the door handle. I’d hit him with the door. Unbalance him. I’d have to be on him before he had the chance to draw a weapon.

  He spoke. ‘Sorry to trouble you, bud, but you know there’s a reason why they ban people from using mobile phones in petrol stations.’

  My heart was racing as I mumbled an apology. I’d been a second away from knocking an innocent man flying and then beating him to a pulp. The man went on his way, happy that I’d been put in my place.

  I sat in my car trying to calm down, waiting for the adrenaline rush to subside. The reality of my situation was sinking in. How long was it going to be before I stopped seeing danger everywhere I looked? It was years since I had looked under my car for a bomb. Now I’d be checking under my car, in my office, everywhere I went. I’d worry that every door I opened was going to be my last. And just how the hell was I going to explain things to Jenny?

  I hoped – I prayed – that Monaghan was wrong.

  Chapter 27

  I was running late.

  The order of service said ten-thirty. It was already twenty-five past and I still had several miles to cover. I’d cleared the traffic hold-up on the A10 and was hurtling as fast as Jenny’s 2CV would allow me, towards Cheshunt.

  Bob Bridges was a local man. He had been born in Enfield and, after leaving the services, he’d lived quite close to his parents. I didn’t know the area, so it was fingers crossed I was heading for the right church. I glanced at the scribbled note on the passenger seat.

  Saint Andrew’s, Church Lane. The big church near the council offices.

  As I turned off the A10, my watch showed ten thirty-five.

  The hearse was already parked outside the church. A Sergeant in full dress uniform was mustering the bearers.

  I had to sit patiently in the line of waiting cars while the pine coffin was gently unloaded from the hearse and onto the shoulders of the waiting policemen. The Sergeant placed a blue police-service flag and the dead Inspector’s cap on the coffin. The pallbearers then fell in behind their Sergeant and began the slow walk up the path of the church.

  At the entrance, several other policemen, not quite as late as me, waited at the gates as the coffin passed. Their faces shared a look of intense sadness as they lowered their heads in respect.

  I parked the car and made my way into the church. As I reached the main door, an arm blocked my path.

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ A large, rosy-faced Constable in full uniform blocked my path.

  As I was also in uniform, I was a little surprised to be stopped.

  ‘Do you have your warrant card?’ he demanded.

  I fumbled in my back pocket. Fortunately I’d remembered to bring it and I held it up for the PC to check.

  ‘Thanks, sir. Sorry about that. There are some army blokes inside who asked for the precaution.’

  I smiled and walked slowly into the church. It was big, very big. Ahead of me I could see the pallbearers moving towards their seats. On the left, about halfway from the front, sat the military contingent. With one exception they were all in plain clothes. Even from the back there was no mistaking one of them. Six feet seven inches in his stockinged feet and with long, wavy grey hair there was no mistake. It was ‘Lofty’ Hales, the regimental Sergeant Major.

  There were very few spaces to sit, an empty place on the back row presenting my only chance. I took my seat and found that I could just see Bob Bridges’ wife, Gayle, standing at the front. Gayle was tall and slender with short blonde hair. I hadn’t seen her in a very long time. A black lace veil covered her face but from the angle of her head and the movement of her shoulders I could see that she was crying. It brought a lump to my throat.

  The Chief Superintendent from Marylebone gave the address. He commended the speedy promotion that Bob had achieved. He mentioned the family and friends that such a popular man had blessed with his presence and condemned the cruel way in which his life had been taken. It was a good speech but predictable. But what else could a Chief Superintendent say in such circumstances?

  I felt quite emotional, but despite Bob Bridges having been a friend I was doing OK. That was until Bob’s eldest son got up to speak.

  I hadn’t seen the lad for more years than I cared to think about. I kicked myself that I couldn’t remember his name. He had certainly changed from the scrawny kid that had kicked a football through the Sergeant’s mess window at Hereford. Now he wore the uniform of a Royal Artillery Gunner.

  It was as a young soldier that he stood up straight and started to speak. His dad would have been proud.

  With tears in his eyes and shaking from the effort, he spoke without notes, thanking his dad for giving him a good start in life, for his love and care. Then, as is often the way at such times, he broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. His mother and the vicar walked across to him, took his arms and helped him to a seat on the front row.

  The vicar took over the eulogy.

  That was when it really hit me. I felt my eyes welling up and my chest tightening. It could so easily have been me lying in that wooden box. Monaghan claimed there might be people out there who intended that soon it would be. The emotions of the last few days chose that moment to surface.

  Somehow, I had to keep myself safe and protect my family. But everything had become so confused; fear was preventing me from getting things straight in my mind. Fear for the safety of the things I held most precious. I could protect myself easily. Protecting my family was quite another matter – and it was ground I had never trodden before. I just didn’t know what to do.

  The vicar returned to the pulpit and introduced the final hymn. It was a Welsh one, ‘Cwm Rhondda’, a special request from Gayle as a mark of Bob’s Welsh ancestry. The church echoed to the effort put into the singing. It was a fitting good-bye to a fallen comrade. I sang along with the chorus. The effort stopped my tears.

  With the service over, the pallbearers lifted the coffin back onto their shoulders and made their way slowly down the central aisle towards the church doors. Gayle Bridges held the arm of her son as they followed her husband’s last journey. She kept her head low and facing forward. I figured there were a lot of people here she knew, people she would be pleased to see, but she just couldn’t look up.

  As the church emptied, I waited. The soldiers had turned to see the cortege away and I could now see their faces. Some I recognised, most were new. ‘Trapper’ John Hodges was there, Lofty Hales, Chris De’Ath and Billy Hart. At the end nearest the central aisle stood their colonel, the only man in uniform. I didn’t know him personally but guessed he must be the legendary ‘Boxer’ Harris. Ex-paras and highly decorated during the Falklands war, a choice new boss for the regiment.

  As the soldiers walked down the aisle and approached, a sheepish smile crossed my face. Lofty Hales was the first to reach me.

  ‘Hello boss, been a long time.’

  ‘You could say that, Lofty, how are you?’ The others were close now and they all reached forward to greet me. Their handshakes were strong and warm. It was an incongruous meeting of old friends. The sadness of loss coupled with the pleasure of re-uniting. It served to explain why so many wakes turn into parties. For me, it produced an immense sensation of comradeship, a feeling of belonging. To know that these hardest of men had shared experiences of life and death with me and that now they felt the same grief that I was experiencing. There were few words. Just looks that said we all understood each other.

  The last man to take my outstretched hand was the Colonel. ‘I don’t believe that I have had the pleasure. You must be Bob Finlay.’

  The new commanding officer’s grip was strong, his hands calloused and hard. I immediately sensed that this was a man to respect, a man who had earned his current posting.

  ‘And you must be Colonel Harris,’ I said. ‘Sad that we should meet on an occasion such as this.’
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  ‘Yes, I didn’t know Sergeant Bridges but I am told he was a fine soldier.’ The Colonel turned to the waiting soldiers. ‘If you would excuse us, gentlemen, I need to speak to Mr Finlay in private.’

  Several pats on the back and promises of drinks later and we were alone.

  The Colonel guided me back into the centre of the church where he indicated that we should sit. I remained standing.

  ‘I understand that Colonel Monaghan has been in contact with you concerning the circumstances of Bridges’ death.’

  I was stunned for a moment. ‘He has. How did you know?’ I asked the question although it was already dawning on me that as the officer commanding the SAS Regiment, Harris would certainly know Monaghan well.

  ‘We keep in contact. Sad news about his wife.’

  ‘Is there something wrong with her?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought you would have known. She committed suicide last year.’

  Weakened by the emotion of the funeral, I felt as if someone had drained all strength from my legs.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked, as I sat down.

  ‘Seems she took an overdose. It was all dealt with very discreetly, which probably explains how you didn’t know.’

  ‘It does.’ I looked down at my feet. I’d been close to Victoria Monaghan, ever since the immediate aftermath of the Iranian Embassy when she had been so supportive of Kevin Jones. At a time when he had gone through emotional problems and had come close to losing his place in the regiment, she had been the one who had persuaded her husband to allow Kevin time to recover.

  The Colonel drew breath, breaking my reverie. ‘There was something else I wanted to talk to you about, however, Finlay. I am aware that Monaghan may ask you to do a job for him in the near future. I suggest that you resist his request.’

  ‘You know what went missing from the Irish SB office then?’ I said.

  ‘Monaghan told me, yes. I find it appalling.’

  I wanted to know more. ‘What’s being done to warn everyone? What about some protection for a start?’